


Party Like It’s The Year of the Notional Serpent

by Elsinore_and_Inverness



Category: Discworld
Genre: A bit of Lord Downey/Havelock Vetinari, Alcohol, Book: Mort, Fluff, Gen, Many featured cameos, Music, destruction of property, happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23478475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsinore_and_Inverness/pseuds/Elsinore_and_Inverness
Summary: Lady Sybil Ramkin was determined to plan A Night To Remember. It wasn’t everyday that your friend survives ten years as Patrician of Ankh-Morpork.
Relationships: Havelock Vetinari - Relationship, Sybil Ramkin & Havelock Vetinari, Sybil Ramkin - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Party Like It’s The Year of the Notional Serpent

Death wasn’t supposed to travel through time in the wrong order. The trouble is it’s all happening at once and sometimes he gets confused. 

Lady Sybil Ramkin was determined to plan A Night To Remember. It wasn’t everyday that your friend survives ten years as Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. 

She had conscripted all the best caterers and sommeliers in unstoppable Ramkin fashion and was barring no expense. This meant that things were going to get broken and she was going to pay for it. 

She also had a gift. His name was AnkhBiscuit and he was three years old and smelled like someone had set off a very small atomic bomb inside a toaster oven. 

She’d put out a blanket invitation. It was the security nightmare of the century. She’d invited the watch and Sergeant Colon and Corporal Nobbs had RSV... said they were coming. 

It would be a time of joy. Which sounded pretty and prim as eight PM on Hogswatch eve, but to Lady Sybil in this particular case meant a riotous Bacchanal such as had not been seen since the ancient republic. The dress code was cocktail, which meant it was okay if you spilled your drink on yourself. Except for some members of the Fool’s Guild, who had taken it to mean “dress like a chicken.” 

The party was a way of saying to Ankh-Morpork, which didn’t need to be told twice and to Havelock, who pretended he didn’t hear: “have fun, godsd*mn it.”

The planning was going smoothly. Of course, if it wasn’t, Sybil’s direct approach would smooth it out faster than a pre-heated iron.

Despite the fact that Lord Vetinari wasn’t precisely likable, people found they were looking forward to it. After all, he was only one of hundreds of people invited. The people of Ankh-Morpork needed a reason to party like two rocks dropped from the Tower of Art needed a reason to fall at the same speed.*

Because Sybil was a thoughtful woman, it never occurred to her to consult the guest of honor (who was indeed, technically the host) on the music or entertainment for the night. She selected a mixture of popular music and the kind of stuff one would read out of a book studying for a doctorate (she did know the man after all and noticed how embarrassed he got when they were young and people would offer to play for him). 

What she had succeeded at doing was creating a gathering of all types of people from all over the city without tearing a hole through to the Dungeon Dimensions or improving Mr Dibbler’s sausage sales. It’s amazing what you can do with good catering.

The cake had a layer of marzipan, because Havelock prided himself on the ability to smell the difference between cyanide and almonds at six paces.

The guests began to arrive, meandering through the Great Hall, leaning on the mysterious standing-up tables wrapped in cloth that always seem to appear at these kinds of parties and disappear before the next morning, hanging in clumps of people they knew as the band tuned. 

Everyone was enjoying themselves. Only the Patrician seemed surprised, but then again, he had the eyebrows for it.

There was a warm energy in the room, like the buzz of insects on a summer night. People seemed overcome by a fierce joy at being alive. 

The band started in on “Ankh-Morpork! Ankh-Morpork! So Good They Named it Ankh-Morpork!”

Havelock caught Sybil’s eye, smiling the kind of smile he usually hid behind his hand. “As long as they don’t do The Patrician Doesn’t Have Any Balls.”

“Or ‘Werewolves of Ankh-Morpork,’” said someone with very nice hair, holding a Piña Colada. 

People had started dancing. Sybil and Havelock watched them writhe, years of classical training forbidding them from joining in anything less technical than a hornpipe.

“Ten years,” he said conversationally.

“I can hardly believe it.”

“I feel like I’ve just got here, I mean properly. Like the past decade’s just been set up. Preparation.”

“You‘ve come so far,” Sybil said, looking like she might want to hug him.

Havelock sniffed. She wasn’t supposed to agree with him.

She went and got him another glass of wine. 

The next dance was a waltz. Sybil bowed to him and whispered, “Let’s show off that Master’s Degree, eh?”

“If you insist.”

Lady Ramkin was nearly Lord Vetinari’s height. The yards of fabric of her gown swirled across the floor as his feet moved quickly. He was light and balletic on his toes, but in an odd way, like a wind-up toy, too mechanical, while she moved like water, like a force of nature. They had to sort of fake the dips and lifts.

“I have a present for you,” she said at the end of the song.

“A present? I couldn’t possibly guess.”

There was a crash from across the room as one of the too-tall tables covered in empty glasses happened to be in the path of an enthusiastic Nobby Nobbs. 

“It’s not going to put a hole in the carpet, is it?”

“I shouldn’t think so. The scumble’s all in mixed drinks.”

“I meant the present.”

The first violinist came up to them and Vetinari had to remember to keep his knees straight talking to the dwarf. 

“The conductor wants to speak with you,” he said. 

“The waltz was very good. I’m no expert on popular music, but you’re definitely getting paid.”

“Sir, he has a new composition from Fondol that he wants to have a Disc Debut tonight. He wants to make sure that no one records it before it is published.”

“My dear fellow, I trained as an assassin, not a pirate.”

“He asks that your Lordship does not memorize the piece, on account of your Lordship comprising thirty two percent of Fondol’s sheet music sales, your Lordship.”

“Tell him I’ll do my best to tune it out.”

“Oh no! You must hear it! You’ll hear why.”

Lord Vetinari, against his better judgment, accept a third glass of wine and tried to listen to the song with one ear closed.

It went something like this: 

_The day Vet-i-nar-i came_

_That brought Guilds a lasting fame_

_Let all the citizens enjoy_

_Their wonted homage sweetly lolls_

_Whilst dancing in the marble halls_

_They celebrate this happy day_

_The day Vet-i-nar-i came_

_That brought Guilds a lasting fame_

_  
_ _Let flocks and herds their dues pay up_ _Lions and wolves refuse their bribes_ _And all in friendly consort sup_ _Made glad by these propitious vibes_

_The day Vet-i-nar-i came_

_That brought Guilds a lasting fame**_

It was probably the liquor and not the liberetto, but his eyes felt hot and wet and he felt inclined to do something outrageous like laugh or kiss someone. 

“Give Fondol $200 a year for life,” he said. “I wish I could say I didn’t memorize it.”

People in the Gardens were letting off fireworks and, from the sound of it, having trysts in the hoho, and the band was playing another new Fondol called “Music for the Patrician’s Fireworks.” He actually liked the smell of fireworks back then. 

The party had begun to spread into other rooms of the palace. Somewhere Albert Spangler, not entirely sure how he had ended up somewhere that looked like a library shouted “Let’s do the Serpent Dance!”

Havelock, feeling emotional, answered the distant shout with “Yes! Let’s!”

He found Lady Sibyl and joined the line behind her. He felt someone put hands on his waist and he turned his head to see Lord Downey. That was alright. Kind of more than alright. 

A few people further back there seemed to be a “wizzard” if his hat was anything to go by.

“Having fun?” he asked the night in general. 

It was not long before a chorus of “So good! So good!” was echoing across the vaulted rooftops.

About half an hour later Lord Downey’s elegant shoe connected with the door of a decorative dish cabinet. Sybil said she’d pay for it and Havelock made a very high pitched sound of delight, watching Lord Snapcase’s priceless jasperware shatter irreparably. 

As the Serpent Dance snaked out of the drawing room, poor AnkhBiscuit threw himself out of the window and Lord Rodley had to sit down and think about who he could complain to about the Patrician, the second in command of the Assassins Guild, and the Duchess of Ankh behaving like a bunch of drunken roi— roiste— people who have fun.

The Patrician was drunk as a skunk raiding a rubbish bin, happy as a clam at high tide, and having one of the best nights of his life.

Complaining to the captain of the watch about the Patrician and his accomplices’ wanton cruelty towards expensive earthenware would seem quite nonsensical to Rodley in the morning when he realized that he still had a hangover despite being sober before midnight. He actually hoped whoever was behind him in the line would learn how to relax and have a good time. After all, you don’t live forever, might as well enjoy yourself while you’re here.

*Leonard of Quirm predicted it was going to happen, and so it did. 

**See “Ode for the Birthday of Queen Anne”


End file.
